The Hotshot

by Myra Scott

  THE HOTSHOT

  By Myra Scott

  THE HOTSHOT

  Vegas Heat – Book One

  Copyright 2018 by Myra Scott

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, redistributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in any database, without prior permission from the author.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. All characters are 18+ and all situations are consensual.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One - Casey

  Chapter Two - Luke

  Chapter 3 - Casey

  Chapter Four - Luke

  Chapter Five - Casey

  Chapter Six - Luke

  Chapter Seven - Casey

  Chapter Eight - Luke

  Chapter Nine – Casey

  Chapter Ten - Luke

  Chapter Eleven - Casey

  Chapter Twelve - Luke

  Chapter Thirteen - Casey

  Chapter Fourteen - Luke

  Chapter Fifteen - Casey

  Chapter Sixteen - Luke

  Chapter Seventeen - Casey

  Chapter Eighteen - Luke

  Chapter Nineteen - Casey

  Chapter Twenty - Luke

  Chapter Twenty-One - Casey

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Luke

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Casey

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Luke

  Epilogue - Casey

  The Hotshot

  CHAPTER ONE - CASEY

  “What are you baking this time?” came a gruff voice from off to my left. I glanced over, grinning at my coworker, dressed head-to-toe in workout gear. I shrugged and then raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Creme brulee cupcakes,” I replied, gesturing broadly to the bags of ingredients and the giant glass mixing bowl on the counter in front of me. “And what about you? What’s with all the Lululemon, huh? About to go teach yoga to some hippies?”

  “Ha ha,” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest, and I could tell I might have struck too close to a nerve. I instantly felt a little guilty. I knew Greg well enough to tell when he was feeling insecure about something, even though he was such a stoic guy it was difficult for most people to read his emotions.

  “I’m just kidding, man. You look great,” I added with a smile.

  A flicker of appreciation crossed his face before quickly returning to his usual glowering expression. “Thought I might do some quick reps while we’ve got some downtime,” he said. He patted his gut and sighed. “The missus is almost to her third trimester now, so it’s all froyo and deep-fried pickle chips at our house right now. I never thought I would complain about having too much junk food, but I think I might be gaining more weight than she is, and I don’t even have the excuse of eating for two.”

  I chuckled and leaned over the bowl to mix up the wet ingredients with my favorite wooden spoon. “Sympathy weight, dude. It’s super common. Don’t stress about it. Stress is bad for the baby, remember?” I joked, giving him a wink.

  Even he had to laugh at that. “Yeah, yeah,” he agreed, nodding. “I just worry I’m going to get too out of shape and won’t fit in the truck anymore.”

  I snorted. “Yeah, right. If Chuck can squeeze his ass in there, I think you’ll be just fine.”

  “Hey! I heard that, asshole,” Chuck laughed from across the room. He tossed a hacky sack at me from his perch on the sofa, and it smacked me lightly against the back of my skull. I turned around and glared at him good-naturedly.

  “Keep that up and you won’t be getting one of these cupcakes,” I warned him. Chuck held his hands up in mock surrender.

  “Alright, alright, you got me. I’m a sucker for creme brulee,” he conceded, sitting back down on the sofa. He picked up the two barbells on the floor and began idly lifting them in both hands, curling them up to his shoulders.

  “Don’t skip leg day!” Greg called out to him, eliciting another peal of laughter.

  I smiled at the bowl of cupcake batter in front of me, content with the playful banter and familiarity of the fire house. I spent so much time here, it often felt like this was my real home, and that the studio apartment I had on the outskirts of town was more like someone else’s house that I sometimes crashed in. And part of that was by design: most of the time, I would have rather been here at the station than home in my too quiet, too empty studio apartment. Here I was surrounded by my fellow firefighters and close friends, the crew that had become more like family than merely a group of colleagues. We were cooped up in the station for twenty-four-hour shifts at a time, week after week. Sometimes, the twenty-four hours went by so quickly it felt like hardly any time had passed, getting summoned to accidents and emergencies all over our suburban community time after time. And then there were other days when it felt like we were living in a ghost town. Like the community had decided as a whole to just put a moratorium on emergencies for a full day.

  Some days I would spend hours meticulously scrubbing every nook and cranny of the fire engine, polishing the glossy red paint until it shined. I would wander around the station desperately searching for some menial task or chore to shape my endless hours into some semblance of productivity. And then other days, I would long for one damn second of silence and peace in between the hoarse shouting of my crew chief, a fatherly older man named Chief Mateo Reyes, and the wailing of the alarm.

  So far, this particular shift had been one of the former types. Empty hours stretching long and languid while we firefighters struggled to find good ways to pass the time. Hence, the creation of creme brulee cupcakes. Baking was a passion of mine, actually, but it was one I didn’t often find much time to indulge in. I was obsessive about staying busy, which was why I loved my job so much. It was easy to ignore the outside world and keep my mind from wandering into dark, uncharted territory if I just stayed busy enough to distract myself completely.

  Not that I was running away from anything. Not really. I just preferred to keep moving and contribute as much as I could to the community.

  “Hey, speaking of my wife, is there any chance I could snag a couple of the finished product to take home to the missus and the bun in the oven later?” Greg asked, leaning against the kitchen counter.

  I looked up and gave him a smile. It warmed my heart to think that he approved so much of my baking skills as to bring it home to his wife. Greg was notoriously protective over her, especially now that she was so far along in her pregnancy. It was actually kind of funny, in a sweet way. He was so serious and tough on the exterior, most people never suspected he would have such a soft spot for his wife, who was a bubbly, giggly person in sharp contrast to him. Greg had been known to hole up in one of the bunkrooms to Facetime his wife in private. One or two times I had overheard him engaging in some very decidedly not manly cutesy baby talk with her over the phone. He was the kind of guy who would probably be infinitely embarrassed to be caught doing so, which was why I kept that little secret to myself.

  “Of course, man. One for mama, one for baby,” I told him.

  “Thanks, dude. It’ll be a welcome change from her steady diet of peanut butter and graham crackers, I’m sure. Now, if only I could convince her to eat some green vegetables, that would be truly miraculous,” he sighed. There was a sour look on his face, but I could hear the true affection in his voice. Just like most of the men I worked with here, the rocky facade gave way to a soft, mushy interior. We were all tough guys here. At least until you peeled back the outer layer and
discovered that we were all bleeding hearts on the inside. Hell, wasn’t that the main reason why we were all here? Because we just simply cared so damn much?

  It certainly wasn’t for the pay, after all. I mean, I did well enough for myself as a single guy who lived very frugally and had no dependents to speak of. I tended to just kind of hoard my money, really. I never spent much on frivolities like nice clothes or a fancy car. The most luxurious items I bought were usually tools for my woodworking hobby or fancy gourmet ingredients for my baking endeavors.

  But I wasn’t here to make money. I was here because I loved the job. I loved working alongside a crew of equally altruistic, heroic guys who would run straight into danger if it meant even the slightest chance of saving a life. I loved seeing the relief and gratitude on the faces of the people I helped in the community. Hell, just last week I had responded to a call about a little girl’s pet guinea pig that had gotten loose from the house and ended up tangled in a mass of electrical wiring from a downed telephone pole. Seeing that little seven-year-old’s face go from pink and splotchy with tears to smiling and laughing with relief was more valuable to me than any paycheck.

  Of course, we dealt with much more harrowing situations than a guinea pig in peril. We also responded to domestic disturbances, flooding emergencies, and of course, house fires. Usually, in our tight-knit little suburban town, what constituted an emergency tended to be pretty damn tame compared to the monstrosities that occurred in bigger cities, like Las Vegas, which was only about a thirty-minute drive from our town.

  But that didn’t mean it was all fun and games for us here at the station. Even in the most monotonous moments here, even when it might have looked to an outsider like we were all just lounging around, wasting time until clock-out, the truth was that we were all poised and ready to rush into action.

  At any given time. Under any given circumstances.

  The number of times I had been awoken from a dead sleep by the screech of the alarm was uncountable. You just never knew what to expect from your shift, and I liked the fact that my job kept me on my toes. A firefighter could never get too complacent. Never too comfortable. Because the second you let your guard down, the worst could happen. If there was one thing my decade in the business had taught me, it was that.

  Just as I was putting the creme brulee cupcakes in the oven, the alarm started screaming. Instantly, I turned off the oven, put the tray of batter in the fridge, and leaped into action alongside my fellow crew members. Chief Reyes came lumbering out of his office, leading us downstairs to the garage where the engine sat shiny and waiting for us.

  No matter how many times I went through this, my heart never stopped pounding. The adrenaline rush was the same every single time. I felt that surge of endorphins, that prickle of fear lined with an overwhelming sense of duty to my community. We climbed into the engine together in near silence, all of us so accustomed to the routine that we could function like one big, well-oiled machine by now.

  It was a call routed to us by the operators at 9-1-1, just as had happened a thousand times before. The order had us hurtling through traffic, the alarm wailing like a wounded animal as we crossed town in record time. We reached the scene within six minutes, and the moment we turned down the cul-de-sac, my heart dropped into my stomach.

  This was far worse than any of us had expected. The little house, a bungalow scarcely bigger than my studio apartment, was up in flames. The angry orange fire stretched up into the gray, early dawn sky, licking at the clouds. Plumes of filthy smoke billowed in every direction, buffeted by the brisk autumn wind. All the neighbors had rushed out of their homes to stand in the street, huddled together to gawk at the horrific scene.

  As we pulled to a screeching halt, even my seasoned chief murmured, “Holy god.”

  We leaped out of the truck and into action, preparing the hose and searching for methods of ventilating the squat little building to assuage the damage. Spraying thick currents of water into the fire, my crew mates shouted for the onlookers to move out of the way.

  “Get back! Way back!” I yelled, waving my arms at the crowds. They all obliged, scooting back away from the scene but still watching with wide eyes. I caught sight of a woman on the edge of the quickly burning yard. She had crumpled to her knees and was screaming and sobbing. My stomach turned. I put two and two together and rushed over to her, kneeling beside her and putting an arm around her shoulders.

  “Ma’am, are you the resident?” I asked her, giving her a gentle shake to nudge her to answer me. She was clearly in shock, barely registering that I was even present. She turned and looked at me with tears tracking down her smoke-smudged cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak, her chin quivering.

  “Y-Yes. That’s my house,” she choked out. Her whole body was trembling.

  “Okay, okay. You’ll be alright. We’re going to take care of this and get you to the hospital when the ambulance arrives, okay?” I assured her. Suddenly, it was as if she snapped back to reality. Her eyes went wide and she began to claw at me desperately.

  “My baby! My baby!” she began to wail.

  Fuck.

  “Your baby? Ma’am, is there a child in the residence?” I demanded to know.

  She nodded. “In…in the bedroom. She’s only three,” she whimpered.

  And then a combination of smoke and shock made her eyes roll back in her head. She collapsed in the brown grass, and I jumped up. “Someone help this woman! I’m going in!” I shouted over the din. Two of my colleagues came hurrying over to support the woman, and I bolted straight for the house before anyone could tell me to stop.

  I knew they would try and hold me back. A fire this dramatic surely had left the inside of the house a burnt husk by now. Anyone still trapped inside would have virtually no chance of survival, especially a child. And yet… I could not risk it. I could not simply accept the dwindling statistics. I had to see for myself, even if I died in the process.

  After all, this was what it meant to be a firefighter.

  Ignoring the horrified shouts of my colleagues and chief, I darted through the crumbling threshold of the house and was instantly confronted with a wall of thick, dark smoke. I coughed, covering my face as I crouched down and began muddling my way through the collapsing frames. This was a small bungalow, so there could only be a few different places to look. I told myself that I could just do a quick check, but I knew in my heart I was either going to leave this place with a child in my arms or in a body bag. I could not, would not, give up.

  Finally, I heard a raspy cough—and it did not come from my own chest. Off to my right was a small room almost totally engulfed in flame. The doorway was falling apart by the second, but I didn’t care. I rushed through the darkness, hoarsely gasping out, “Where are you?”

  I heard a peal of terror. A high-pitched cry in the utter blackness. Fumbling blindly, my chest constricting from smoke inhalation, my hands landed on a soft, tiny body. I scooped the child into my arms, covering her with my shirt as she clung to my chest weakly.

  “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” I murmured, though my voice was more of a croak by this point. I couldn’t see a thing. I could barely breathe. I knew that this tiny child had only the barest sliver of a chance of surviving this, and every millisecond spent trapped in this fiery house chipped away at that sliver.

  So, I did the only thing I could think to do: I barreled through the darkness, clutching the little girl close. All around me, beams of the structure crashed down. The noise was deafening. The heat was overwhelming. Every breath I drew was choked with smoke.

  And still I moved, my legs carrying me even after my brain checked out altogether. I hurled toward a faint glimmer of light—the doorway. And just as I leaped out of the darkness and into the clearing light of dawn, the overhead beam came clattering down. I dove to the ground, sheltering the tiny girl with my body as the wood collided with my left cheek. I felt a fla
sh of searing pain, and then all went dark.

  CHAPTER TWO - LUKE

  TWO YEARS LATER

  Years ago, the steely gaze each of the four men was giving me would have made me feel like I was standing before giants. Now, I stared right back at them with every bit as much resolution and cunning as them.

  I was their equal, and they knew it.

  The Nevada sun shone through the tall windows, filling the luxurious private meeting room with natural light, but the screen behind me was still as bright and crisp as ever.

  I stood in a tailored black suit that hung perfectly on my broad, muscular shoulders. Everything about my stance, my gaze, and my demeanor said that I was a man who knew how to handle himself, and I was brimming with so much energy I thought I was going to burst.

  This was my natural environment, and I knew it inside and out.

  “I seem to remember a time,” I started, pacing in front of Zane, Mick, Gage, and Bart with a confident smile on my face, “when the four of you made a toast to the way the Sentry Casino’s profits doubled almost overnight when we started our partnership with La Torre. And Bart, I remember you cracking a joke about enjoying the feeling while it lasted, because you thought we wouldn’t be raking in that kind of a spike in our lifetimes. I was just a newly hired assistant back then, so I believed you.”

  Bart raised an eyebrow at me with a smirk and crossed his arms. Gage was leaning forward with his hands clasped, while Zane and Mick were sitting back with crossed legs and an even, expectant gaze.

  I used my tablet to flip to the screen of my presentation, which flickered onto the massive screen on the wall behind me. It showed a graph of our profits over the past quarter.

  Watching four pairs of eyes widen in the room made my heart pound harder in my chest.

  It felt good to watch hard work pay off.

  “As you can see,” I said, gesturing to the point where the numbers started to spike, “this is one week after I took over the marketing campaign from the last PR company you hired. My algorithms demonstrated a 78% increase in ad views, and the expenses we saved by keeping the marketing operations in-house put last quarter’s profits—”